


you never shine if you never burn

by Mx_Carter



Series: Good Omens With Superheroes! [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, co-dependant superheroes in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/pseuds/Mx_Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London's superheroes are the stuff of legends. From the enigmatic Prophetess to the iconic Warrior, speculation on their private lives has filled books, magazines and the minds of the public for years.</p><p>The reality is...slightly different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Battle Born by The Killers

 

 

The boy sits on the balcony and watches the last of the afternoon sunshine turn amber golden and thick as it sinks beneath the horizon. He doesn’t move. Perhaps he has forgotten how.

 

He stares at the sun because otherwise he'll stare at his hands. He doesn't want to stare at his hands.

 

Because then he'll look closer, into his cells, and he'll be able to see the warped strands of DNA, the mosaic of spiky crystals and rounded science textbook bases. Like the diagrams from Lucifer's laboratories, the models they'd built of his genetic code, right beside the tank where they'd...

 

Where they'd built him.

 

Adam Young is a lie. Adam Young is half an alien, and half something he honestly can't bring himself to think about, and not the least bit human at all.

 

For the first time in his life, he doesn't know what to do.

 

When the balcony door clicks open, and three hearts start beating thick in the air around him, he tries to sum up the energy to make them piss off. He just...can't, not right now. But he can't make his mouth say words, so they settle around him. Brian sits at the foot of his chair, Wensley drops onto a chair beside him, and Pepper leans her back against the rail. The pressure of three sets of eyes on him is an awful weight. Eventually, it’s too much.

 

“What?” he snaps.

 

Pep sighs. “Adam, you’re not him. You know that, right?”

 

No, Pepper, he doesn’t know that, how is he supposed to know that? The fucker _built_ him, like he built Crowley, who knows how many _extras_ he put in? Adam’d thought he’d gotten used to not knowing exactly what his body is capable of, but this is a whole new level of wrong.

 

Brian leans his head back against his knee, and chuckles a little. It’s not a nice sort of chuckle. “Put it this way, mate. I’ve got half my dad’s genes, d’you think that makes me like him?”

 

He’s out of his chair before he knows it, because that isn’t what he meant _at all_. “Brian, _no,_ course I don’t think that!”

 

Brian stares back, face unreadable. “Then why the hell are you out here, moping? Pep’s right, Adam. You’re not him, any more that I’m my dad.”

 

They don’t understand. “Brian, you saw the lab. Lucifer _made_ me, and I don’t know…” His voice gives out for a moment, before he pushes on, quieter. “I don’t know what else he did.”

 

“I looked over the files.” They all turn to Wensleydale, who doesn’t look up from polishing his glasses. “Lucifer’s scientists spent much of their time stabilising the mixture of Enochian and human DNA, ensuring that Lucifer’s DNA would be human enough to create you, and making sure that you would inherit Michael’s powers.” He looks up, meets Adam’s gaze. “So far, I’ve found no evidence of any other tampering, or any conditioning experiments. I’ll continue to look, and if you want, I’ll do a full scan and evaluation.”

 

“We’ve fought Lucifer loads of times.” Pepper points out. “If he did have some button somewhere to make you go Dark Side, he woulda used it by now, yeah?”

 

Adam sits down, lets his spine curve inwards. He wants to cry, laugh, rip out his DNA and turn to dust. Wensley’s right, he’s always right, but Adam still can’t trust himself.

 

He feels arms around the back of his neck, thin and wiry with muscle. Pep’s run hotter than human since the accident. Brian leans back against his legs, and Wensley slumps against him to rest his head on Adam’s shoulder.

 

Pepper’s voice is soft, soothing. “I know you’re scared of yourself right now, but Adam, we’re not. We’ve been with you for so long, you really think this changes anything? You’re still Adam.”

 

“And we still love you.” Brian’s head thunks back against his knees.

 

Wensley hums against his collarbone.

 

The three bodies around him anchor him, pull him back to Earth. Adam lets his eyes slide shut. They’ll keep him safe.

 

The sun sets, as suns do.

 

~~~

 

Crowley doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t like it. Not understanding is dangerous.

 

He didn’t kill the rapist he’d been tracking for weeks. He knocked him out and cuffed him to a street lamp and phoned the police, but he didn’t kill him. He didn’t kill the monster who ruined six women’s lives, _and_ _he doesn’t fucking know why._

 

Technically, he could still do it. The police station can’t possibly be that secure, not for someone like him. He could be in and out in ten minutes. No-one would see him, and maybe those six women would sleep easier at night when they saw the monster’s body on the news

 

He could, of course he could. But somehow he knows he won’t, and it’s really pissing him off.

 

Guardian doesn’t even look up when Crowley picks the lock on his door and steps into his inner sanctum. Crowley has no illusions – the mysterious man probably let him in. Guardian waves distractedly to a chair, muttering under his breath as he does something to…something, okay, computers really aren’t his strong suit.

 

After at least ten minutes, Guardian looks up from his screens and gives Crowley a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. Corrupt governments redistributing aid money to militias, you know how it is.”

 

Crowley hums in agreement. Inwardly, he wonders just what he’s let himself in for. Guardian is like no-one he’s ever known, and he can’t get a read on the man.

 

Then he leans forward and says, in a calm, conversational voice, “What exactly did you do to me?”

 

The hacker blinks. “I’m not entirely sure I know what you’re…”

“Oh can it,” Crowley snaps. “This is the first time I’ve let a target go, and I was talking to you just last night. Call me paranoid, but I don’t believe in coincidences. So I’ll repeat; _what the fuck did you do to me?_ ”

 

Guardian is looking at him with so much _sorrow,_ Crowley can almost see it dripping onto the carpet. With a snort of disgust he looks away. Fucking do-gooders. If he’s honest, he can’t quite reconcile the enigmatic digital presence that had stalked him across half the globe with this guy, who wears cardigans unironically and says things like ‘dear boy’ and ‘oh my’. And _cares_ , god, he cares so _much_ , and Crowley really doesn’t know what to do with this. He doesn’t know why Guardian tracked him down, why he’s trying to get him on the side of the angels, what this beautiful, intriguing, fucking impossible man wants with him.

 

But if Guardian’s fucked with his head somehow, he’ll kill him right here and now.

 

The bastard in question sighs. “Crowley, I didn’t do anything to you. You chose to spare that man, through no influence of mine. Though it does confuse me that you don’t believe you could have done a moral action without some kind of…influence on you.”

 

His laugh is harsh. “Really? Have you actually been paying attention to my life, or did you just skip past the bits with the blood?”

 

“No, actually, I didn’t.” Guardian’s full attention is on him, and it’s dizzying, addictive. “And this isn’t the first target you’ve spared, is it?”

 

Shit. “You were thorough.”

 

“Well, yes. I pride myself on it, and you were a very interesting case. Do you know how many of Lucifer’s protégées make it out of his service alive? How many even try?”

 

He shakes his head, and Guardian smiles at him. “None, Crowley. To my knowledge, you’re the first.”

 

Crowley has to sit back for a moment, let that sink in.  All those other half-people he’s met or heard of, and he’s the only one who could be arsed to escape.

 

“That’s all very lovely, but it doesn’t explain why I let that man live.”

 

Guardian sits back in his chair too, runs a hand through his mess of dark curls. “Well, we already know you have the capacity for morality. Not only did you balk at murdering a child, but everyone you’ve killed since your escape has been the kind of person few juries would convict you for.  In your own, rather violent way, you’re trying to do what we do, make the world a better place.”

 

Crowley bares his teeth in a grin. “Succeeding, not trying.”

 

Guardian waves that away. “So it follows that you’ll take the next step. Instead of killing your targets, turning them in and letting them face justice.”

 

“Killing that monster would be justice. He deserved to die.”

 

Guardian smiles, just a flicker. “I’m not arguing with you on that. But think about it this way – he’ll be put on trial. He’ll go to prison, and you know how rapists are treated there, especially the ones that attack young girls. Assuming he gets out, he’ll have a record for the rest of his life. He was a school teacher, wasn’t he?” Crowley nods, and Guardian’s smile grows a bit sharper. “Yes, I can’t imagine any school hiring him after _this,_ can you? He’ll have to change jobs, and very few universities are going to let him in. He’ll probably end up doing menial work or manual labour – can you really see him doing well in those professions? Perhaps he’ll reform, change his ways. Perhaps he’ll even be sincere. But any way you swing it, he won’t be doing very well for himself. He’s got a whole life of misery to remind him of the crimes he committed against those girls and women. And there is something incredibly cathartic about watching the face of the one who hurt you when the judge pronounces him guilty. Your way of bringing criminals to justice may be simpler, but my way lasts much longer.”

 

 “You’re assuming they convict him.”

 

Now that, that is the smile Crowley would have expected Guardian to have when the information broker had first contacted him. “Oh, he’ll be convicted. Trust me, Crowley.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Yes, well, we’ll work on that.”

 

God, he’s never going to be free of Guardian, is he? Surprisingly, that’s not a terrible prospect.

 

No, Crowley thinks, as Guardian turns back to his computers without saying anything along the lines of ‘You can go’ – and in Crowley’s book, that’s as good as an invitation to stay. Not terrible at all.

 

~~~

 

When Newt finally gets back to Mr Fell’s, he’s sore, exhausted and a little bit singed. He also stinks of something that smells a bit like sulphur, but not really. It’s not pleasant, and he’s glad Mr Fell’s flat is in walking distance. Taking the tube like this, even in civvies, would not do wonders for his anxiety.

 

Raising an arm to knock on Mr Fell’s door takes all the strength he doesn’t really have, but it opens after one knock. Mr Fell smiles at him, that sweet, distracted smile that makes him look like someone’s granddad, even though Newt’s fairly sure Mr Fell’s only about a decade older than him. The cardigan doesn’t help, he supposes.

 

“Newt, how nice. Come in, come in. I just put the kettle on.”

 

Newt comes in, and is quite proud of himself for reaching a chair before he collapses. Yeah, that wasn’t a good night. 

 

Its nights like this when he wonders if Prophetess wasn’t right, when she said he was in the wrong business. If Shadwell’s disparaging mutterings aren’t accurate. He managed to exorcise the nest of imps that had been terrorising the neighbourhood’s children, but only just.

 

Mr Fell setting a mug of tea by his elbow knocks him out of his fugue. The man smiles warmly at him, and pats his shoulder. “We all have bad nights, Newt. Don’t fret too much about it.”

 

Newt desperately hopes he doesn’t start crying. To distract himself, he takes a fortifying gulp of the tea. It’s good tea, just the right amount of milk and sugar. He glances up at Mr Fell. “Earl Grey?”

 

The man’s smile widens. “It’s my favourite.”

 

“Mine too,” Newt says, and apparently those are the magic words, because Mr Fell sits down and they talk tea for about fifteen minutes. By the time Newt is waxing lyrical on his mother’s favourite tea shop and its surprisingly nice rosehip blend, the hard knot in his throat has gone away, and he doesn’t even care that he smells of imp goo. Mr Fell, he decides, is the nicest person he knows.

 

Still, the imp goo smell is starting to get worse as it dries. And he’s still too exhausted to get home without collapsing somewhere. Exorcisms really take it out of you.

 

“Um, Mr Fell…” he ventures cautiously. What’s the proper etiquette for asking someone if you can use their shower to wash imp goo off? Does Mr Fell normally get requests like this?

 

Mr Fell sighs. “Dear boy, you really must call me Zira.”

 

“You didn’t tell me your name for _months_ , and he gets it straight off the bat? I see how it is.”

 

Newt fairly jumps out of his skin when a voice comes from behind him. He jerks his head around to see a man emerge from the living room to lean against the wall. He’s…well, very…Newt doesn’t quite know how to describe him. He’s got dark skin, black hair and very good cheekbones, and is dressed in the sort of clothes that would look more at home in a glossy magazine photo-shoot that in Mr Fell’s cosy kitchen. He’s also wearing sunglasses, and Newt doesn’t really know what to make of that. His voice sound familiar, but Newt can’t quite place it.

 

Mr Fell turns and says in an amused tone, “Well, if you’d only asked.”

 

The other man smiles back, and then glances at Newt. He shifts uncomfortably under the stranger’s stare. The sunglasses are just odd, and even with them, this guy’s stare is uncomfortably piercing. It feels like he might be evaluating Newt as a potential threat – though, considering the kind of people Mr Fell associates with, that might not be too far off the mark.

 

“Witchfinder, right?” the guy eventually asks. Newt nods, feeling on edge and a bit shaky. He still doesn’t know how he recognises him, only that he definitely does.

 

Mr Fell is glancing between them; he doesn’t look worried, which is a bit reassuring. Newt shoots him a quick _what is this, help me_ glance and gets a reassuring smile. “Newt, this is Crowley, also known as Serpent. Crowley, this is Newt. Have you two met yet?”

 

 _Serpent._ Okay, at least Newt knows why he looks so familiar. Now he knows what he’s looking for, he can almost see the green scales superimposed over those rather impressive cheekbones. He can even reconcile the fashion sense with the crazy fucker who’d shot a parting quip at Prophetess before jumping off a building. His first impression of Serpent had been pretty James Bond. Albeit James Bond with scales.

 

And it sort of explains the sunglasses.

 

Crowley sighs gustily and reaches up to take his sunglasses off. “I really wish you wouldn’t go around revealing my identity to everyone, angel. It’s called a secret identity for a reason.”

 

“Ah, but we’re all friends here, right? Besides, it’s best if we don’t keep secrets from each other.” Mr Fell pulls a chair out, and Crowley crosses the room and sinks gracefully into it.

 

“Says the guy with more secrets than all of us combined.” But Crowley’s tone is rueful, and when he swipes Mr Fell’s tea, he doesn’t get more than a tut and a sideways glance. Newt is beginning to get an idea about what’s going on with these two, and he’s a little bit terrified. Serpent’s bad enough as is, but Mr Fell is scary in a way that Newt only notices sometimes, which makes it even worse. The thought of the two of them _dating_ …

 

That is not a comforting thought. Newt is not comforted by this.

 

Crowley’s eyes – and yes, they are still snake eyes, and yes, it is creepy – are sparkling, and Newt wonders if he’s telepathic. That is even less comforting. What is his life, again?

 

Mr Fell starts, the turns to Crowley. “Oh yes, I was wondering, would you be interested in giving Newt a few hand-to-hand lessons? Only his skills could use a little work.”

 

Now that’s diplomatic, Newt thinks. His hand-to-hand is abysmal. Normally, he manages to zap the baddies before they get close enough to punch him, but there’s been a few times that he’s really regretted his lack of skill. He’s fairly that Serpent’s been witness to a couple of those times. When you’ve been around London’s masks for a time, you get to know when someone’s watching you. And if Crowley’s smirk is anything to go by, Newt’s right.

 

Crowley gives him another assessing look, and Newt tries not to squirm. Eventually, he nods. “Alright, I’ll give it a go.” Mr Fell smiles gratefully at him, and Newt focuses on not having a panic attack.

 

Crowley turns his smile on him; Newt thinks it’s meant to be encouraging. “I haven’t taught before, but we’ll see.” Newt nods, trying desperately not to show how scared he is. He’s heard _stories_ about Serpent.

 

Well, let’s be real. Serpent could hardly make him _worse_.

 

Eventually, he manages to stammer out his original query, and Mr Fell magnanimously gives him permission. He scurries off, and really hopes that Crowley isn’t laughing at him. He probably is.

 

On his way home, he calls Prophetess – she still hasn’t given him her name. “Are Mr Fell and Serpent dating?” he asks. He probably shouldn’t be gossiping about his…co-workers?...but he _has_ to know. This is one of the most pressing questions in his life right now.

 

His occasional partner snorts. “So you met them, then. Did you get traumatised?”

 

“No, actually. Slightly terrified out of my mind, but not traumatised. Why, how did you find out?”

 

“Walked in on them.”

 

Newt stumbles. “You’re not serious.”

 

“Oh yes. I didn’t scream, but it was a near thing. And no, I didn’t get pictures, sorry.” Newt had just been working up the nerve to ask her that. He sighs, disappointed. It would have been quite a sight.

 

“Did Serpent come after you?”

 

“Actually, he just laughed and congratulated me on sneaking up on him. Also offered to let me join in, but I’m fairly sure he was joking.”

 

Newt doesn’t quite know what to say to that, except to tell her; “Serpent’s going to train me in hand-to-hand.”

 

He’s not sure how to feel about Prophetess’ gales of laughter. It takes her a while to speak. “I’ll say nice things at your funeral, promise.”

 

He huffs. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I might discover my inner Schwarzenegger or something.” That starts her off laughing again, and he sighs. Still, he doesn’t think that it’s rude laughter. More the friendly, teasing sort of laughter. Newt doesn’t have much to compare it too, having not had much by the way of friends, but it feels…

 

Nice. It feels like he’s a part of something. He’s never had that before.

 

He wants to feel like this always.

 

Even if it means being trained in unarmed combat by someone who scares him more than Shadwell.


	2. Chapter 2

“This is a _fanfiction trope_ ,” Newt wails. “We are _not in a fanfiction. Why is this happening to us?”_

“You read fanfiction?” Anathema asks, and grins when he splutters and blushes. “Got any good Destiel recommendations?”

 

“Now, children,” Mr Fell says levelly from his computers, “is this really the time?”

 

“Destiel is always relevant,” Anathema points out, and yeah, Newt is behind that. “Also Sad Soldier Cuddle Puddle.” Newt raises an eyebrow at her, and she elaborates. “Steve, Sam, Bucky and Natasha. Tell me that isn’t the greatest thing ever, I dare you.”

 

“Did you just give me a new ship?” Newt wonders. He can practically feel Mr Fell’s sigh.

 

“Maybe we should get back to the matter at hand.”

 

The matter at hand being that London’s first superheroes and its most morally dubious vigilante are now four.

 

Fuck Newt’s _life,_ seriously.

 

Anathema is currently holding baby!Madame Tracy’s hand as she looks around with wide eyes. Because the babies do not, in fact, have their adult memories. They have baby brains as well as baby bodies. They are babies. Three of the most adult-y adults in Newt’s life are now babies, and Newt is _not equipped to deal with this._

 

Baby!Shadwell is sitting sullenly in the most awkward spot of floor in the room, perfectly designed to be tripped over as many times as possible. Nice to know some things haven’t changed too much.

 

Baby!Crowley is…somewhere. He’d been at the flat during the babyfication, and according to Mr Fell, he’d run away and gone into hiding. Newt’s afraid to ask.

 

…

 

Adam turns up soon after, bringing a bag full of toys; apparently he has two nephews. When he spots the two toddlers, his face takes on a strained expression. Newt can understand – he’s been trying not to laugh at baby!Shadwell’s grumpy face for half an hour already. He exits quickly, leaving them alone with the babies.

 

Anathema’s taken the opportunity to boot up her laptop and look over some of the case files she routinely nicks/borrows from Scotland Yard. Newt decides to follow her example; he thinks there’s something fishy going on in those jewellery robberies in Camden.  This, of course, means no-one’s taking care of the babies, but Newt and Anathema are in the same room if something happens, so whatever. Mr Fell is still working, contacting his various acquaintances and contacts on a solution for the babyfication. He still hasn’t seen Baby!Crowley, but Mr Fell has assured them that he’s still in the flat, and that he’ll come out when he’s ready.

 

Now unoccupied by Anathema, baby!Madame Tracy wanders up to Baby!Shadwell and thumps down beside him in the uncoordinated fashion of particularly plump toddlers. “Your aura is grumpy and I’m bored,” she states. “D’you wanna play with me?”

 

Baby!Shadwell glares at her and, yeah, that’s definitely Shadwell. Adorable Shadwell with really chubby cheeks that Newt desperately wants to squish, but still Shadwell. “Ah’ll no’ play with no _girls_ ,” he grumps.

 

“Please?” baby!Madame Tracy asks, doing the sort of puppy eyes that should probably be weaponised. Baby!Shadwell manages to stay firm for a few seconds, before caving. The two toddlers toddle off to play with the blocks.

 

Newt is going to die. Of cute.

 

Anathema has put her earbuds in to work, so Newt nudges her and points. She looks at the babies, then at him, then out of the window, doing her meditation breathing. When she looks back at him, her eyes are wide. _What did I just see?_ she mouths at him.

 

_I know, right?_ Newt mouths back.

 

Very deliberately, Anathema aims her phone camera and takes five photos of the babies. This, Newt reflects, is why Anathema is the leader whenever they team up. She has the _best ideas._

 

Suddenly, Newt feels a small hand close over his knee. Shocked, he jerks his head down and sees…

 

It’s baby!Crowley. It has to be. He’s wearing one of the second-hand onesies they’d procured for the babies, and his head is tilted the same way Crowley’s is when he’s curious about something. But his eyes are a normal, human shade of dark brown, and Newt’s pretty sure he’d remember if Crowley had that much scar tissue. And on his face too…

 

Newt has to take a few deep breaths. Because no-one should have that _many_ scars, especially not a fucking _four-year-old. Jesus._

Judging by Anathema’s shocked gasp and whispered swear, she shares his opinions.

 

The boy squeezes his knee again, and jabbers something in a language that Newt can’t quite place. It sounds familiar, but he’s damned if he knows from where. He doesn’t know much about Crowley’s past, so he has no idea what to make of this. With a sinking feeling, he realises that baby!Crowley may not be able to communicate with them.

 

“Um, do you speak English?” he inquires cautiously. The boy tilts his head in incomprehension, and queries something else in his language. That’s a no, then. He shares a glance with Anathema, who looks just as lost.

 

She turns to Mr Fell’s den, and calls out; “Zira? We may have a problem…”

 

At Anathema’s raised voice, baby!Crowley goes very still. Newt grabs for his hand, tries to keep him from running off again. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re not in trouble,” he assures the now trembling child, trying to project reassurance into his voice. He’s not sure how well it works, but baby!Crowley stays still long enough for Mr Fell to enter the room.

 

He stops and stares for a moment, his face horribly stricken, and grabs for the doorframe as if to hold himself steady. “Oh, Crowley”, he murmurs. Baby!Crowley stares at him, unsure.

 

After a second, Mr Fell gathers himself enough to cross the room and kneel before the boy. He addresses him in what Newt thinks is the same language baby!Crowley was using. This seems to break a dam, and he immediately starts babbling, hands jerking around. Newt shares another look with Anathema, this one of relief. Things might be okay now.

 

Suddenly, baby!Crowley stops talking. His eyes dart around the flat, focusing on the windows and door. Trembling again, twisting his hands together, he whispers something. Newt is half out of his chair, wondering desperately what he can do, if there’s anything he _can_ do for his suddenly very vulnerable mentor.

 

Mr Fell reaches forward and pulls baby!Crowley into a hug.

 

Newt’s never seen Crowley hug anyone before. Sure, Crowley’s a pretty tactile guy, he touches people all the time. A hand on Newt’s arm to correct his posture, an arm around Anathema’s shoulders after a successful operation, draping himself over Mr Fell’s back when he’s at his computers; Newt’s seen him both initiate and relax into physical contact before. But to his knowledge, Crowley doesn’t _hug_.

 

Still, the kid wraps his arms tightly around Mr Fell, and sort of folds into him, burying his scarred face in Mr Fell’s cardigan.

 

It’s uncomfortable to watch, something private and delicate. Newt feels horribly intrusive, and averts his eyes. Anathema, too, is studiously focussed on her case files. The two other babies are watching unashamedly.

 

Eventually Mr Fell stands, with baby!Crowley, kind of attached to him like a koala. It’s ridiculously adorable, especially since he thinks the baby may have gone to sleep a little bit. Anathema looks like she wants to take more photos, but doesn’t dare. Which, yeah, is wise considering Crowley is perfectly capable of taking revenge in a manner that will still leave them fit for patrol.

 

Mr Fell smiles at them, still looking a bit shocked. “He’ll probably sleep, now. I’m afraid he didn’t have the best of childhoods” – with that, he glances down at the sleepy toddler with a terrifyingly soft look in his eyes – “and all that paranoia has quite worn him out.”

 

Newt still feels terribly awkward, but Anathema has recovered enough to smile at Mr Fell in a convincing manner. Grinning tiredly back, Mr Fell leaves the room, cradling baby!Crowley in his arms.

 

The two of them are silent for a bit, watching the babies play with their blocks. Anathema breaks the silence first. “I won’t mention that ever again if you won’t.”

 

“Deal,” Newt says fervently. Crowley isn’t the sort of person one would ever want to see weakened, and the sooner Newt can forget he saw that, the better.

 

Because if he shows the teeniest amount of pity for Crowley once this is sorted out, he will not actually survive.

 

Comforted by the knowledge that things will probably be back to normal soon enough, Newt goes back to his casefiles.  

 

~~~

 

Crowley falls into step beside him as he exits shul, and Zira isn’t even surprised. Ever since Crowley had officially joined his network, the man has been turning up at random points during his day and breaking into his flat every other night. Anathema and Madame Tracy have been giving him some odd looks, but Zira supposes turnabout is fair play, and if Crowley needs to stalk him to feel comfortable around him, then he might as well. Besides, the other man’s company is nice. They have the most interesting debates.

 

There’s something odd on Crowley’s face when he takes in Zira’s kippah and tallit, and Zira mentally braces himself. The community has many issues, but religion is one of the worst, and his faith has generated some scathing comments. He’s learned to deal with it. So when Crowley says “You never struck me as a religious man”, it rolls off him. He hums noncommittally and lets Crowley build up to his actual question.

 

“Why?”

 

Zira had known it was coming, but he’s still not sure how to answer. He isn’t militant about his faith, but he knows from experience that plenty of masks are militant about their atheism. It’s only natural, he supposes. Seeing the thing they do on a regular basis, you can only really go one way or the other. From what he’s seen, Crowley has gone the opposite direction to him, and is going to stick with it. Still, he owes the man an honest answer.

 

“My mother always told me that G-d will provide. I haven’t found anything to disprove her yet.”

 

Zira can practically _smell_ the raised eyebrow, for all that he doesn’t turn around. “Really? So the robbery-gone-wrong last night was what, exactly? What about the murder Prophetess almost prevented, but not quite? The child left orphaned after her mother overdosed two nights ago? Tell me, angel, are you actually looking at your screens?”

 

He isn’t angry at Crowley, for all that his words feel like an attack. Zira doesn’t know everything about Crowley’s life before he ran from Lucifer, but he knows enough to understand what he’s really asking about here.

 

“What about the murder you prevented a week ago? The serial killer Anathema brought down just last night? The thousands Michael saved when he prevented a massive landslide in Jakarta last month? All the people we save, night after night? All those little miracles?”

 

“That was our work, not some divine chessmaster’s.”

 

“But who allowed the work to be done?”

 

Crowley exhales, and Zira can almost taste the angry words he wants to use filling the air. The other man’s restraint is admirable, considering how worked up this topic is making him.

 

They walk side by side in silence until they reach Zira’s flat. Honestly, he’s expecting Crowley to leave him here, but he doesn’t. He walks straight into Zira’s kitchen and makes himself perfectly at home. It’s only a little disturbing to realise how natural his presence already feels.

 

Zira’s no hermit; he’s taken great pains to ensure that he doesn’t become as isolated as he so easily could. But there’s a substantial difference between having friends round for tea and having Crowley wander in and sit down on the chair that’s somehow become his.

 

Not an unpleasant difference, though. Not unpleasant at all.

 

After he’s made them both tea and packed his tallit away, Zira sits beside Crowley at his battered kitchen table and takes a few minutes to arrange his thoughts before speaking.

 

“I have a different concept of G-d to most people. I don’t believe in a specific, separate being with a personality. After spending rather a lot of time considering the matter, I’ve come to the conclusion that G-d is less of a being and more of a force.”

 

“How so?” Crowley is leaning forward in his chair, actually engaging with him, not just dismissing his beliefs outright. Zira’s chest feels so much lighter as he elaborates.

 

“For me, G-d is a sort of presence, a guide. He can’t interfere or change the events set in place by the natural order or by human free will; he is simply there for us, when we need him. He gives us commands to follow, to lead a full and happy life; He comforts us in our times of need, gives us strength when we need it most, absolves us of our sins. Perhaps not the most orthodox interpretation of G-d’s self, but then I’ve never been all that traditional.” He pauses for a moment, wondering how he could make things clearer, explain himself better, before continuing. “I’ve always pictured His presence to be like that of my mother, in my very first memories; something hazy, intangible, and yet still so huge and loving.” He glances across at Crowley, to find that he can’t read the man’s expression at all.

 

Then Crowley smiles, and the midday sunlight gets a little brighter. “That…makes a kind of sense. Not that I agree with you, but I can see where you’re coming from”

 

Relieved, Zira smiles back. “I don’t need you to agree with me, Crowley. I’d just like you to understand.”

 

They talk for hours, until the sun has set and they both have to begin their duties. Watching Crowley change to his half-snake form is as mesmerising as always, and Zira cannot make himself look away from it. Crowley catches him looking, but doesn’t react save for a quiet smirk.

 

Sometimes, it feels like they’re playing a game of chicken, seeing who will break first. And, Zira thinks as he turns to his monitors, he’s not entirely sure what constitutes as losing in this particular game of theirs.

 

Ah, well. It’s Crowley. He’s sure to have fun finding out.


End file.
